The Demon Soul (warcraft)

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Drink,” Xavius urged, pushing the flask up.

  With the mouth of the bottle already near his lips, Peroth’arn saw no reason to hesitate anymore. He let the gentle liquid flow over his tongue and down his throat. His entire body tingled as he swallowed the rare vintage.

  “A long-overdue reward,” Xavius said. “One of many.”

  “Delicious.”

  His hooved companion nodded. The more he sat with the satyr, the less Peroth’arn feared Xavius. The former advisor gave him the respect he so richly deserved. That was truly an honor for the night elf, for was not Xavius now a much respected servant of the great Sargeras? Was he not now more to the lord of the Legion than all the Highborne combined?

  “He watches you, too,” the satyr commented quietly, as if passing a secret to a trusted comrade.

  “ ‘He’? You mean—”

  “All are under his wise gaze, even from so far away.” A tapering finger thrust at the sorcerer. “But some are observed more than others…in the hopes that they may be groomed for further greatness.”

  Peroth’arn was speechless. Sargeras had marked him so? He quickly downed another huge gulp of wine, his eyes wide and calculating. How the others would have envied him.

  “To his enemies, Sargeras is death incarnate, but to those who serve him well, he is benevolence unbridled.” Xavius guided the flask to Peroth’arn’s lips again. “He took me from beyond. He drew me back and granted me not only life again, but a special place at his side.”

  Stretching to his full length, the satyr displayed his form for Peroth’arn. Seeing it now as a precious gift of the great god, the night elf admired it. In truth, Xavius was now much more than he had been in his previous life. His features were broader, more imposing. Xavius looked stronger, more agile despite the hooves. It was also evident that he had an even greater mastery of the arts. Peroth’arn could sense the power radiating from his former master and suddenly felt pangs of jealousy. This was power such as he, too, deserved.

  Perhaps the wine had made Peroth’arn not so cautious in guarding his emotions, for suddenly Xavius pulled away from him as if struck. The satyr nearly melted back into the shadows. Peroth’arn clutched the flask tightly, fearing that he had offended one blessed by the god.

  But as quickly as he had retreated, Xavius returned to him. The satyr loomed over the seated night elf, staring deep into Peroth’arn’s eyes. The sorcerer could not look away.

  “No…” whispered Xavius half to himself. “It is too soon…but…he said that I must find those worthy…perhaps I could…yes…but to take on such a mantle, one would need the strength and resolve…dare I hope that you have such resolve, friend Peroth’arn?”

  Leaping from the bed, Peroth’arn gasped, “I have whatever strength and resolve you need! I would do anything to be more worthy of my queen and Sargeras! Grant me the chance to be one of the worthy, I beg you!”

  “It is a fearsome path you would take, dear Peroth’arn…but you would rise above the other Highborne! You would be under my guidance! All who beheld you would know you for one blessed by the lord of the Legion! Your power would grow tenfold and more! You would be the envy of all others, the first to join me!”

  “Yes!” roared the night elf. “I will do whatever I must, Lord Xavius! Do not forsake me! I am worthy, I swear! Grant me this gift!”

  The horned figure grinned, a sight that now filled his companion not with anxiousness, but rather with hope. “Yes, my dear Peroth’arn…I believe you. I believe that you are indeed worthy to take on the aspect of one of his most trusted, just as I have.”

  “I am.”

  “Your world will never be the same…it will be far better.”

  Peroth’arn set the flask on the bed, then went down on one knee. “If I can be accepted here and now, I ask that it be so. Please say it is possible!”

  The grin grew wider. “Oh, it can be done now.”

  “Then I plead with you, Xavius—make me as you are! Give me the blessing of the god so that I may be a more perfect servant! I am worthy!”

  “As you wish.” Taking a step back, Xavius seemed to grow. He filled Peroth’arn’s view completely. The ruby streaks in the satyr’s eyes flared wildly.

  “It may cause you some pain at first,” he murmured to his convert, “but you will have no choice other than to endure it.”

  Xavius raised his clawed hands high…

  But as the spell struck him, Peroth’arn shrieked. He felt as if his body were being stripped to the bone bit by bit. The agony was like none he could have ever imagined. Tears filled his eyes and, unable to articulate words, he pleaded by moans for the pain to end. This was not what he wanted.

  “No,” responded the satyr, ignoring his pleas. “We must finish now.”

  And the screams rose to new, horrific levels. That which had once been Peroth’arn would hardly have been recognizable to his fellow Highborne. His body constantly mutated, pushed slowly and deliberately by Xavius’s power to what he desired. The screams became sobs, but even they did not disturb the satyr’s dark work, no matter how loud they, too, eventually became.

  “Yes…” Xavius said with a gleam in his unholy orbs. “Unleash the pain. Unleash the fury. No one beyond this chamber will hear. You may scream as much as you like…just as I did.” His grin grew savage, animalistic. “It is little enough to suffer for the glory of Sargeras…”

  The night elves had thought that the demons would pause somewhere along the way. They had expected that when they returned to Suramar they would at least be able to regroup and hold the enemy. And they had been certain that, if all else failed, Black Rook Hold would become their sanctuary.

  They were wrong on all counts. Rhonin and Krasus understood why before Lord Ravencrest or any of the other night elves did. They had seen foremost the work of Archimonde, the sinister giant who, for a very good reason, commanded the Legion with the foul blessing of his master.

  “He will give us no respite,” the dragon mage said, putting to voice what both had long thought. He absently touched his chest where he had adhered the scale, recalling Archimonde’s unholy relentlessness.

  “He’ll run the demons into the ground before he lets that happen,” Rhonin agreed. “But we’ll all collapse long before they ever do.”

  The night elves tried in vain to stop the rout at Suramar, if only so that the Hold could be readied for their entrance. It was hardly large enough to contain the population of the area, much less the huge force Ravencrest had gathered, but the noble had hoped that securing it would steel the hearts of his followers again. That, however, was not to be. There was not even time to enter the edifice. The soldiers held long enough for the civilians to flee behind them, but that was it. There was no chance to make Black Rook Hold ready and, to his credit, Ravencrest did not seek shelter there while the Burning Legion crushed all else.

  “Never would I have thought the Hold so useless!” he snarled at Illidan. “But our host is too great despite our losses and if we sit here, the demons will chop away at those left outside, then starve those within.”

  “Surely we can survive a siege!” Malfurion’s twin insisted.

  “Against others, aye, but these will not tire and leave! They will destroy all around us, then wait for the inevitable!” The bearded night elf shook his head. “I will not let our end be so ignoble!”

  After less than a day, they abandoned Suramar to the enemy, aware that nothing would be left to rebuild should the Burning Legion eventually be defeated. Wherever the demons marched, nothing remained but ruin. Even before the last glimpse of the city dwindled in the distance, the defenders could see the massive trees toppling, the walls collapsing under the relentless onslaught.

  But even though so much of the Burning Legion had to be taking part in Suramar’s demise, those stalking the army continued after as if undrained of even a single warrior. So far there had been only one slim benefit to the lengthy retreat and that being the fading airborne threats. The Eredar stil
l cast what spells they could to harass the night elves, but their demanding efforts had clearly exhausted them. The Infernals’ attacks had also lessened, at least from above. However, they still barreled ahead of the other demons, striking the defenders’ lines whenever the opportunity arose.

  Day faded into night, then night into day, and still Ravencrest’s force was pushed back. More than one night saber rider lay asleep atop their mounts, and many a foot soldier eyed them with envy. Those who were stronger aided the ones beginning to falter. Worse, the population of refugees ahead of the soldiers grew with each hour, and they lacked the coordination and stamina of the fighters. Generations of peace had left them unprepared for such a catastrophe, and soon the army found itself merging unwillingly with the weary civilians.

  “Get along there!” shouted Jarod Shadowsong to a number of slow-moving figures in front of him and his charges. “You can’t stop in the middle of this! Keep going!”

  Krasus frowned. “This will only worsen. Ravencrest will be unable to maintain order even over his soldiers if they and the refugees become too entangled. This is exactly what Archimonde desires.”

  “But what can we do?” Rhonin’s eyes had deep shadows. Like the others, he had not truly rested since before the trap had been sprung. Of all of them, only Brox looked at all fit. Having grown up in wartime, the orc had been forced many times to survive days without sleep. Still, even he appeared ready to nap if given the chance.

  In fact, it was Brox who answered Rhonin’s question, but not in words. With their own party becoming as trapped by the flow of refugees as the rest of the armed force, the orc began taking action. Pushing ahead of Jarod and the bodyguard, Brox roared at the nearest of the mob and swung his ax around his head. He was such a sight to behold that the night elves fearfully started to open the way for him.

  “No!” he rumbled. “Ahead! No going that way! Ahead only! Help others!”

  And as his companions watched, the grotesque figure began herding the refugees as if he had been doing the same with cattle or sheep all his life. None of the night elves sought his fury and they obeyed his commands to the letter.

  Jarod quickly took up his example, spreading the guard unit wide and using them to sweep forward the civilians before his party. Order was soon reestablished there and as more officers became aware of what was happening, a true line started to form. With careful deliberation, the armed host herded their charges on. The night elves’ pace as a whole picked up.

  Yet still the Burning Legion drove them on. Krasus noticed a mountain in the distance, one that struck a vague recollection. He looked to Jarod and asked, “Captain Shadowsong, is there a name to that dire peak?”

  “Aye, Master Krasus. It’s Mount Hyjal.”

  “Mount Hyjal…” The mage pursed his lips. “Are we driven back so far as that?”

  Rhonin noted his expression. Speaking only for Krasus’s ears, he asked, “You recall that name?”

  “Yes…and it means that the night elves’ situation is most dire.”

  The human snorted. “Something we already knew.”

  Krasus’s eyes took on a darker cast. “We cannot permit this retreat to go on much farther. The host must make a stand, Rhonin. If we fall back beyond Mount Hyjal, then surely all is lost.”

  “Memories stirring?”

  “Or simply common sense. Whichever the case, I remain resolved that we can go no farther than the mountain. Despite what history says, I cannot see the night elves triumphing if we fail to make a halt.”

  “But Lord Ravencrest is already doing all he can and we’ve worn ourselves out just buying time.”

  “Then we must do more.” The dragon mage raised himself up as much as riding a night saber would permit. “Would that I could find Malfurion. His skill would be one needed now.”

  “I last saw him with the priestess, Tyrande. He looked as pale as one of his kind could get. He battled something out there that nearly destroyed him.”

  “Yes, I think it was Archimonde.”

  “Then Malfurion would be dead.”

  Krasus shook his head. “No…and that is why I wish he were here. Nonetheless, with or without him, we must begin our assault anew.”

  “Begin what anew?”

  Rhonin’s former mentor turned back toward the direction of the demons. “Yes, we must take the offensive again.”

  The greatest of the dragons gathered in the Chamber of the Aspects, led there by Alexstrasza and Neltharion. The four Aspects present guided the proceedings, attended only by their consorts and those of the absent Nozdormu. All other dragons had given of themselves already; but for those of such power as now awaited their turn, the process required more delicacy.

  The Earth Warder’s three mates remained all but hidden behind him. They were larger than Korialstrasz, but were still dwarfed by the black male. As he studied them, Alexstrasza’s youngest consort noted that they seemed but shadows of the Earth Warder, their every movement based upon what Neltharion did or said. The red dragon found this disturbing, but no one else seemed to notice.

  The emerald males attending Ysera were slim, almost ghosts in comparison to the other great leviathans. More unsettling, they, like their mistress, moved about with their eyes constantly closed. Yet, beneath those lids, one could see the eyes shift back and forth. The greens constantly existed in two planes, more often than not in the Emerald Dream. They were silent and still, but Korialstrasz felt their magical senses monitoring the situation closely.

  Malygos and his mates were a distinct contrast. They were constantly in motion, nudging one another and looking here and there and everywhere. Their blue-white scales glittered in merry little displays of magic and occasionally small details concerning one or the other would alter as the whim struck. Korialstrasz found them more refreshing than the blacks and greens.

  Almost as solemn as Ysera and her mates were the four consorts of Nozdormu. They had the same sandy bronze texture as the Aspect, but were more solid than the almost-fluid monarch of Time. Korialstrasz wondered exactly where Nozdormu had gone that he would miss such events. From what little he had gleaned from his queen, it seemed that even the Aspect’s mates did not know with certainty what had happened.

  Yet, the Timeless One was still here in essence and that was a vital point. In the paws of the eldest of the females stood an hourglass made of what appeared to be pure golden sunlight. Within it, glittering bronze sands flowed not down but up. When the top filled, they then descended, only to begin their upward march once more.

  The sands were a part of Nozdormu, set separate by him for urgent need by his flight. All the Aspects supposedly had some part of their essence put aside, for they were more than huge, reptilian beasts. They represented the most powerful forces of the world, the very fabric of its being, created by those who had molded the world itself. True, they were bound by its earthly laws, but they were as much above the other dragons as dragons were the younger races.

  The various flights had alternated their offerings, one at a time. Now only two remained, the last, ironically, being Korialstrasz.

  For some reason, he did not feel very much honored.

  But before Korialstrasz presented himself, the essence of the Timeless One had to be brought forth. Saridormi, the Aspect’s prime mate, carried the hourglass gently in her left forepaw as she stepped up to the Dragon Soul.

  Neltharion’s creation floated in the very midst of the chamber, its simplistic form radiating a fearsome yet majestic glow. All were bathed in a rainbow of colors that, not coincidentally, matched the shadings of the dragons.

  “I come bearing representation of He Who Is Without End, He Who Sees Past, Present, and Future!” Saridormi intoned. She raised the glittering timepiece above the shimmering disk. “In his name I add his strength, his power, his self, to this weapon that we will use against the fiends attacking our realm!”

  With a single squeeze of her powerful paw, the gargantuan dragon broke the hourglass.

  The
sand that was the essence of Nozdormu did not fall in a heap, as Korialstrasz had expected. Instead, it swirled out—as if itself a live, sentient thing—and began to spin above the Dragon Soul. As it spun, a light sprinkle of bronze rained down upon the disk. Each particle struck with a brilliant flash, then vanished within.

  A bright radiance filled the chamber as the last grain sank inside, a luminous sunburst that momentarily blinded Korialstrasz. He turned his eyes away and did not look again until the light had faded. The red leviathan saw that the rest, even the greens, had been forced to shield their view. Only Neltharion appeared to have watched it all, his wide, avid gaze drinking in everything.

  “My love,” came Alexstrasza’s whisper.

  Still ill at ease for reasons he could not explain, Korialstrasz strode forward. By himself, he would have chosen to deny the Dragon Soul his essence, but his queen had asked this boon of him as she had all the others; how could he be the only one to say no? Nevertheless, he stared at the talisman as if seeing not the salvation of the world, but something that tainted it.

  That was foolish, though, he thought. For what reason would the Earth Warder do such a heinous thing?

  Then, the Dragon Soul loomed before him. So close, Korialstrasz found nothing insignificant about it. Here was power such as many in the past had dreamt of, and others would do so again for centuries on. Here was the joined essences of all the dragons, the most powerful of the world’s children.

  “It is waiting for you.”

  The red dragon looked up into the huge visage of the black. Neltharion never blinked. His breathing came in rapid gasps, as if he grew more and more frenzied with each second that Korialstrasz hesitated.

  There is something not right in this…Alexstrasza’s mate thought. But then he recalled how willingly she, Malygos, and Ysera had given of themselves. Malygos, in fact, had been determined to be the first among them to sacrifice a bit of himself, his way of championing his friend’s cause. If the Master of Magic trusted the work of Neltharion, who was mere Korialstrasz to say otherwise?